Chapter 8 #3
Thankfully, the starter stood far enough back from the left side of her plane that she could see him over the high edge of her cockpit. She stared intently at the green fabric square, her plane quivering around her with eagerness to be set free.
The flag dropped.
She slammed her heels to the floor, releasing the brakes all at once. The propeller caught the air and yanked the plane forward, pressing her against the back of her seat as it rapidly gathered speed.
The grass beside her sped by. The giant crowd of spectators became a blur. Hot wind tore at her face, and she was grateful for her goggles, for without them she wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.
Exhilaration rippled through her as she raced down the runway. The wings began to generate lift and flattened out, lifting her plane’s tail off the ground. She could see down the runway now, a wide expanse of green leading to the much greater expanse of blue overhead.
Through her seat, she felt the airplane grow lighter on its wheels. It was a sensation unmatched by any other she’d ever experienced.
The plane started to push the stick back against her hands. It wanted to fly. She held it down on the ground just another second to be sure she had plenty of airspeed when she lifted off.
She stepped on the bottom of the right foot pedal to feed in a bit of right rudder. The torque produced by the spinning propeller made the airplane want to turn left as soon as its tires left the ground. The rudder input stopped that from happening.
She held her breath, poised at the in-between moment between speeding down the runway and taking to the air.
That amazing, magical moment. She could happily live her entire life inside this tiny bubble of time.
The wind whipped into the cockpit, letting her know she was going fast enough.
She eased back gently on the stick, and the Travel Air lifted smoothly off the ground.
She was airborne. Cleveland, here I come!
She held the plane’s nose down to let it accelerate as much as possible before starting her climb out. Only when the end of the runway streaked toward her did she finally pull the stick back firmly and send her plane up, up into the sky.
The wind was out of the west, so the racers had all taken off in that direction, which put their destination directly behind them.
As Pancho climbed, she executed a turn sharp enough to head toward San Bernardino quickly, but not so sharp that she bled off much airspeed.
Now it was all about going as fast as possible.
Even though the throttle was at full power, she pushed on it again to be sure.
The Wright engine roared like a grizzly bear smelling salmon returning to spawn.
Her heart thumped in time with the thrum of the pistons, and blood sped through her veins the same way she sped through the air.
From here it was a straight shot almost due east on the compass to San Bernardino.
Pancho took a deep breath, reveling in her freedom up here. It was the sort of breath she could never seem to draw on the ground. Up here, breathing fueled her purpose in life, giving each breath more meaning than any she took with her feet on the ground.
This is who I am.
She was a flier, and this was what she was meant to do. What she was called to do.
Only up here was she fully alive.
CLEVELAND, OHIO
“Horace?” Cliff Henderson called out. “A moment, please.”
With the duty of firing the opening shot completed, Cliff had been up to his eyebrows in photos.
“Yes?” Horace Aldridge responded.
“Just want to make sure you have the women’s leg of this derby plotted out.”
“Indeed, I do.”
“I know there has been a lot of interest in having those planes land in various locations.” Cliff couldn’t contain his smile. “At the risk of patting myself on the back, I believe adding the women is proving to be very lucrative. So much so, I am thinking of making it permanent.”
“Cliff? . . . I say . . . Cliff? Could you join us?” Horace called.
Cliff was torn. “I won’t let you down,” Horace promised him.
Cliff offered Horace his hand. “Glad to hear it.”
After a firm handshake, Cliff headed off. Horace slowly smiled in victory. He left the field, heading for a hotel with a phone booth. He rang up Clover Field and the senior race official, Dr. Ayers.
“Yes, Mr. Aldridge? It’s takeoff time here.”
“Change of plans. The next stop is Calexico,” Horace said.
“Calexico, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“But the pilots have all plotted courses to Yuma,” Dr. Ayers argued.
“Tell them to change their course to Calexico.” Horace was firm. “You’re my man in the field—don’t take no for an answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Horace ended the call. He sniffed and twisted the ends of his mustache before leaving the phone booth. A doorman hurried to hand him his hat and cane before he left the hotel. Someone had a radio on. The announcer was excitedly describing Amelia Earhart taking off at Clover Field.
Horace was excited, too. All those women were working for him.
Even if they didn’t know it.
Amelia noted through her grip on the throttle that her engine’s vibration was smooth and steady. She didn’t need the newfangled rpm and exhaust gas temperature gauges in her Vega to know it was perfectly tuned.
Ha. I’m no sack of potatoes this time! she thought as satisfaction rippled through her.
At long last, she could finally move on from the frustration her Atlantic flight had left festering deep inside her.
Every time someone called her “Lady Lindy” was a needle-sharp poke in her pride.
After all the pokes during the fourteen months since her humiliating Atlantic crossing as a passenger, she felt like a pincushion.
Even if she would never admit that to anyone else.
Wilmer Stultz and Louis Gordon had done all the flying during the ocean crossing and had flatly refused to let her have a turn at the controls. They’d cited strict orders from their bosses as the reason why she wasn’t allowed to fly any of the trip.
Apparently, the investors who’d financed the ocean crossing had wanted to stop any more women from risking their lives to be the first woman to cross the Atlantic but hadn’t actually wanted Amelia to accomplish the feat for real.
Frustrating was an insufficient word to describe how angry and betrayed and humiliated she’d felt then, and ever since.
But this derby was a new start. A chance to set a real record, one she could win all by herself and be proud of this time. Relief blew through her like a spring breeze. It was very welcome, carrying away the feeling of being a fraud that had clung to her for so long.
Now you’re in the pilot seat.
The starter and his green flag stepped into position just off the left side of her aircraft.
Excitement surged through her. She fixed her gaze intently on the flag.
She was ready for this. The green square dropped.
She released the brakes, and her plane rolled forward smoothly.
Her happiness built along with her speed until she was so full of it she could burst.
She loved this plane. The bright-red Vega was a real beauty. She loved its power, its modern design with a glass cockpit situated between its high wings, looking out over the engine.
The Vega’s five passenger seats were slightly below and behind where she sat to fly. This was the travel plane of the future with its enclosed cabin. It could cross the United States from coast to coast in just three days instead of the week it took on a train.
This air race was the ultimate opportunity to prove to the public that flying was efficient and safe—so safe that, as the press put it, even women could pilot the planes.
Even women, huh? She and the other racers would show everyone what even women could do.
Yep. Better to let her actions speak for the next nine days.
She glanced at her airspeed indicator, a recent innovation that was revolutionizing how pilots flew, and eased back on the stick.
The Vega lifted off.
Up, up she flew . . . smiling so widely her cheeks ached.
She checked her brand-new ultraprecise altimeter—this one delineated how high above the ground she was in hundreds of feet instead of thousands like most planes’ altimeters.
She was just passing through five hundred feet, a safe altitude to make the 180-degree turn to the east toward San Bernardino.
Her left wingtip started to rise, and she looked outside, searching for the airplane that had taken off a minute before her to make sure they stayed well clear of each other.
A brief, bright flash caught her eye—like a spark. Except it wasn’t sun glinting off a metal airplane surface outside. This flash came from much lower and closer . . . which would place it inside the cockpit.
What on earth?
She leveled the plane out quickly without completing the turn and looked down quickly at her primary flight instruments.
Their readings were normal. Whatever that had been, it was gone now.
She turned her attention back to completing the U-turn and clearing the departure flight path for the plane taking off behind her. She turned the stick to the right.
Her wings remained level, her nose pointed at the expanse of the Pacific Ocean. She gave the stick a quick shake and pulled it harder to the right. Nothing. The flight controls weren’t responding.
At all.